Drops in the Bucket
by starryjules
Summary: The completion of Tony's entire bucket list, starting after Engaged and spanning a lifetime.  Everything from angst and death to humor and love.  Strong Tiva but all beloved characters get screen-time. My favorite writing experience to date; Now Complete!
1. The Bucket List

**I know a lot of people are already doing "Bucket List" fics but I couldn't stop the wheels from turning, so you're getting one from me as well.**

**This started almost simultaneously to writing "Number 31" and was supposed to be a 3,000ish word one-shot. It is now nearly twice that long and not even finished. Sigh...best laid plans and all that. It doesn't split up terribly evenly, so I'm posting Chapters 1 - 3 at the same time and expect to have the rest up pretty quickly. **

**Disclaimer: Definitely Tony-centric, but this is the most blatant Tony/Ziva pairing I've ever written (or at least will be, eventually). So if it's not your thing, just give it a miss!**

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><p><em>It coulda been us every single damn day of the week. Sometimes it has been. <em>

The others don't take him seriously, but the plane crash genuinely rattles him. The boss's words from years ago keep repeating in his head. There have been too many close calls over the past decade: countless shootings, explosions, terrorists...even the goddamned plague. He's tired of putting off the things - both juvenile and frighteningly adult - that would make him happy.

_You wanna worry about something, worry about tomorrow._

So even though the others laugh and mock his bucket list, he goes home that night and sticks it to his fridge with a tacky tourist magnet he bought in Cartagena, promising to cross off a few items as soon as possible.

Tony's Bucket List

1. Master the art of Kung Fu.

2. Drive a 1965 Aston Martin DB5 like the one in _Goldfinger_.

3. Discover the meaning of life.

4. Catch a shark.

5. Date a Bond girl and/or Miss Universe.

6. Ride in a motorcycle ball of death.

7. Write letter to Roger Ebert re: his reviews of _Full__Metal__Jacket_ and _Benji_the Hunted.

8. Develop a catch phrase.

9. The luge.

10. Tell Dad it's okay.

11. Watch all Hitchcock films in order of release (including both versions of _The__Man__Who__Knew__Too__Much_), pausing only for bathroom breaks.

12. Experience a Wonder of the World (besides Gibbs).

13. Learn to play the bass.

14. Kick McGee's butt at some video game.

15. Create DiNozzo coat of arms.

16. Ride a Ferris wheel naked. (oops…did that already)

17. Get and pass on Gibbs' recipe for steak.

18. Visit Bogie's grave.

19. Discuss Paris.

20. Give a motivational half-time speech.

21. Find Jimmy Hoffa, dammit.

22. Finish memoir.

23. Make cameo in the movie version of memoir.

24. Let friends get closer.

25. Try space tourism.

26. Tell her.


	2. Number 7

**-7-**

He starts with the easy things, the ones that scare him the least. He orders a bass guitar that same week and spends his seven minute lunch break googling the best places to go shark fishing. The first official line, however, goes through number seven when the list is only days old.

Gibbs and Ziva are on a transport somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, Gabriela Flores in tow, after nearly getting themselves all killed in Afghanistan. Tony takes another swig from his tequila bottle, trying to forget the helpless desperation he had felt watching their firefight in MTAC. He knows they are safe now and heading home, but some part of his mind can't help but obsess that this case started with the crash of a C-130.

He sighs, his drunken eyes wandering over the messy apartment and landing on the slightly crumpled list. Feeling a sudden desire for productivity, he staggers to the kitchen to reexamine his goals. Drunken rationale suggests he start at the end - the most important of all items - and work his way backwards. But some minute and still sober part of his mind intervenes and reminds him that cell reception at thirty-thousand feet gets a little shoddy.

That and he isn't in the most eloquent and rationale frame of mind for heartfelt admissions.

"Twenty-six for another day then," he mutters and instead starts at the beginning of the list, his eyes scanning downwards until he finds one that is both easy and possible for the highly inebriated. "Well there ya go!" He says to no one in particular and stumbles back to the couch with laptop in hand. He googles "Email Roger Ebert," clicks on the link for the Sun Times, and begins to type.

An hour later, the tequila is gone and his 5,000 word seminal masterpiece is sent. He passes out soon after, not waking until the late morning to a raging headache and little memory of the reexamined words lambasting a supposed film expert for failing to see the genius behind the man who gave the world Dr. Strangelove and Hal 9000. He reads on, bewildered, until he reaches the sixth page, which is entirely devoted to detailing his emotional spiral after watching Frank Inn spot his scrappy littler terrier from a helicopter. With a groan, he closes his laptop and drags his hungover ass to the kitchen in search of a DiNozzo defibrillator. His eyes pass over the list, and he smiles in spite of himself, pulling a pen from the junk drawer to cross out number seven.

He thanks cruising altitudes and the Saint of drunken idiots that he decided not to make any phone calls last night.


	3. Numbers 10, 24

**-10-**

Like most well-laid plans, the list is slowly forgotten in the coming months. After learning a few chords on his new guitar, it is relegated to the corner of his living room with the promise of more attention when time allows. And it never does. The list itself is relocated to his desk after garnering more than a few food stains and soon disappears under a stack of bills and case files. After all, when in working 80 hour weeks is he going to take an actual vacation, and what are the chances of finding a former Miss Universe in a DC night club? (For that matter, when was the last time he actually _went _to a night club?)

But one chilly Tuesday morning in February, an unexpected call from Mount Sinai and the incomprehensible words _massive __stroke_ and _unresponsive _bring the list back to the forefront of his mind. He spends the four hour drive formulating what he will say to his father - how he will be there for the recovery, how it is an eye-opener for both of them, that he wants to make even more of an effort on their relationship. Maybe when he is feeling better, they can even do a few things from the list together.

His optimistic plans are shattered though when the doctor gives him a sympathetic look and tells him in gentle tones that they don't expect Senior to wake up again. He sits in a daze beside the hospital bed, trying to process how this larger-than-life man could look so fragile and old and still. He jumps when his phone buzzes, not needing to glance down at the caller ID to know who it is.

"How is he?" she asks without prelude.

He takes a deep shuddering breath, not realizing until that moment how much he needed to hear her voice. "They don't expect he'll make it the day."

She is silent for several beats, her voice betraying very unZiva-like emotion when she speaks again, "I'm so sorry, Tony."

"Yeah," he chokes out. "Yeah, me too."

He can hear her hesitation before she speaks again. "I...I think that there is still time to tell him that it's okay. I think he would like that." That she would remember that from one glance at a piece of paper months ago...he loves her more in that moment than ever before.

And so he takes his father's cold hand between his and talks until his voice is hoarse and broken, the vitriol of four decades of hurt and anger expelled and then forgiven. It is easier than he thought it would be, and he falls into silent musings of regret over the years wasted in stubborn silence. He isn't all that surprised when, an hour after he finally stops talking, Anthony DiNozzo Senior gives one final shuddering breath and departs the world, his face more peaceful than Tony ever remembered.

She is waiting at his apartment when he gets home late that night, returning only for more clothes and a black suit before flying back to New York in the morning. She follows closely behind him to the desk, where he pulls the sheets from a drawer and with shaking fingers, draws a line through number ten. And then she holds him as he cries.

**-24-**

His eyes and mind wander, because that is far easier than acknowledging the mahogany casket over which the priest pontificates. He is surrounded by a sea of Armani and Zegna and every other name that is valued by the large crowd of tycoons and New York royalty who somehow knew his father. In sharp contrast, he stands flanked on one side by his gothic sister in head-to-toe Victorian black lace and the other by a striking foreign beauty in a simple black dress that he knows conceals at least one knife and a .22. He smiles warmly in spite of himself as his gaze travels further down the line of his companions: McGee in an off-the-rack suit from Pennys, Ducky in his classic bowtie, the boss with hints of ever-present sawdust clinging to his cuffs. Even Palmer stands uncomfortably beside the steely-eyed team leader and tries to disguise the moisture in his eyes.

They are here, mourning for a man that they hardly knew better than Tony himself. But as he accepts the needed comfort flowing from both Abby's death grip and Ziva's own delicate fingers, he knows that his family is here for Junior, not Senior. And he realizes that despite his best efforts to the contrary, he let them all in long ago.

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><p><strong>Evidence to the contrary, this won't all be an angst-fest (though the next chapter kinda is as well...hum…) But our beloved Tony seems to need repeated kicks in the pants or slaps to the head to keep him moving forward...<strong>


	4. Numbers 11, 19, 26, 1

**Umm, for the record, this ONE chapter is almost longer than the entire story was supposed to be. It got ridiculously out of hand. And I have no one to blame but myself and the writers for dragging this out for six+ seasons. But it's one of my favorite things I've ever written and I couldn't edit anything out, so enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: this ends on a slightly saucy note, but it's pretty PG-13.**

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><p><strong>-11, 19- <strong>

They break a new overtime record with a serial killer, a thirty-year-old cold case and a nine-hour standoff. They work thirteen straight days and when the killer is resting comfortably in Ducky's cooler with six in the chest, Vance demands that they all leave the Yard for a minimum of four days. Something about a budget crisis and a hundred hours of time-and-a-half a piece…

After sleeping for thirteen hours - a personal best since college - he finds himself at a complete loss for what to do with so much sequential free time. He briefly considers going for a run, but it's thirty degrees outside and threatening to snow. He finally settles for pulling the shades, ordering two extra-large pizzas and hunkering down for the highly anticipated Hitchcock marathon.

He is not all that surprised when she shows up at his door that evening with Chinese food, citing acute boredom. She rolls her eyes at his chosen activity, but by _Rear__Window_ she is clearly intrigued and by _To __Catch __a __Thief_ he's reminded that this is a girl who once admitted to loving the Von Trapp family.

It's during the iconic Grant/Kelly firework scene that he finds himself watching her more than the screen. Her eyes are a little too wide, her lips slightly parted, and his own mouth suddenly moves without permission, the words he's been terrified to utter for more than three years tumbling out.

Any hopes he had for a promising discussion of Paris are quickly dashed when she tells him in no uncertain (albeit baffling) terms to let sleeping hogs die.

"You mean sleeping dogs lie?" He corrects automatically, his fleeting smirk dying at her angry expression.

"We agreed not to bring it up again," she says with a tone of unmistakable finality and turns pointedly back to the movie.

He pauses it and watches her jaw set into a hard, firm line. "No. YOU decided that we would never discuss it. Not me."

A stiff shrug of suddenly tense shoulders. "It happened. It won't happen again. What's more to discuss?"

"Well what if I WANT it to happen again?" That damn mouth betrays him again, and the forceful question rings loudly through the room.

She turns to him with a look equal parts fury and pain and sadness. He is angry at himself, at both of them. He had thought this conversation would come months ago on the heels of his father's death and his umpteenth promise to stop being such a damn coward. But they had fallen back into old habits, old patterns of denial and avoidance that fit too comfortably to be abandoned. And now, now he's finally crossed that uncrossable line, and he can't take it back.

He counts to forty in his head waiting for a response, and when she does speak again the words are nonsensical.

"The box is no longer empty."

He searches his brain for a corresponding idiom; tries to put it through the Ziva-translator to determine what the hell she means and comes up empty. But then a conversation from last summer, held over beers and common commiseration, returns to him suddenly and lands a punch squarely to his gut.

"Ray is back." His voice is flat and the question turns itself into a statement. Her answering nod is enough to push him to the brink, perched and ready to topple with just one more affirmation.

"And you answer?" In his mind, he has accepted the foregone conclusion and spreads his arms as if preparing for a swan dive into the abyss. One which he will - hopefully - not survive.

She looks away from him then, to the frozen TV, to the clock, to the dusty guitar propped in the corner. Anywhere but meeting his eye.

"I have not given him one yet."

The imagined-Tony freezes, because while it is not the expected final blow, neither is it reason enough to step back from the edge yet.

He manages to find his voice somewhere around his ruined kneecaps. "Because?"

"You know why, Tony," her tone is both accusatory and apologetic. "Because...it means I finally have to choose..."

He knows what that admission costs her, because the next words tumbling from his lips are just as desperately hard to say. "Choose me."

Her expression turns so heartbreakingly sad that he fears he just somehow managed to make her choose Ray. She stands then, grabbing her coat and walking silently to the door. She doesn't look back until she's halfway in the hall, about to walk out of his apartment and potentially his life forever.

"You need to decide if you really mean that or if you only want me because somebody else does too," she says softly, her eyes boring straight through him.

He stares stunned at the softly closing door, shifting quickly from shock back to anger. He stands, ready to run after her and call her an idiot and shake her and kiss her and tell her that of course he…

He stops abruptly, standing perfectly still in the middle of his apartment when he realizes that he has never actually told her. He's said it with every expression and action and conversation for God knows how many years, but he realizes he just asked her to choose _him_ without ever telling her those stupidly simple and impossible words.

He rips the drawer completely out of the desk, shaking it upside down and searching desperately through the fluttering papers until he finds the two sheets he desires. He doesn't know why, but it's suddenly vitally important that she see number twenty-six.

**- 26 -**

She's packing a suitcase when he hammers on her door, and she has no idea why he's suddenly pointing at a piece of stained paper. But she reads the words and sighs and meets his agitated gaze.

"You have to do more than write it down, Tony," she says sadly, returning to her room and her packing.

"I love you." The words on his tongue manage to sound foreign and familiar at the same time. "You KNOW I love you. You've never said it either but I know you love me, too."

"It's more complicated than that."

"No it isn't. Spending eight goddamned years flirting and talking and fighting and pretending I _don__'__t_ love you is complicated. Watching another man tell you those words is complicated. Actually it's friggin agony."

"But that's my point, Tony," she sighs and sits on the bed as if the conversation itself has made her weary. "We are always closest to the line when one of us is with someone else. When you were with Jeanne, when I was with Michael. EJ and Ray. Our feelings are strongest when we think the other is about to slip away. And when the third party is gone, the challenge removed, we're always right back where we started. That's not…" She struggles visibly for the right word. "Healthy…"

"Does that honestly surprise you, Zi? That it takes almost losing you for my stubborn, commitment-phobic ass to admit that I can't? I know you understand because you are the exact. same. way." The words are forceful but lacking malice. She is staring at the floor but nods, and he knows she gets it.

He crouches in front of her, trying to see her face better, "Do you love him more than you love me?"

Her eyes meet his then, and there's nothing but truth when she answers. "No. But he can't hurt me as badly as you can."

He sighs and sits down beside her on the bed, resting his forearms on his thighs. That she sees him as the more dangerous bet compared to a lying CIA spook is more than a little disturbing. But no clever rebuttal springs to mind, because her worry is valid and painfully well documented.

"Well, that's the trade off, Ziva," he says quietly. "I can't promise that we won't crash and burn and completely ruin each other in the process. We have shitty relationship track records on our own and combined we're damn near apocalyptic…" his voice trails off, because saying it aloud, even he has to admit that it sounds like a monumentally bad idea. So he tries again. "Abby once called us symbiotic in passing. I nodded like I knew what the hell she was saying and then had to go google it," he sees from the corner of his eye that she gives the smallest of smiles. "You know what it means?"

She purses her lips, her eyes searching his. "It's when two very different entities complement each other and are…" she struggles for a moment and he can see it is the language barrier, not a lack of understanding.

"Mutually dependent," he offers and she nods. "They're at their best when they're together…"

"Dependence is a dangerous thing," she points out and his head drops slightly, his gaze falling to his hands.

"Yeah Ziva, it is. But I'm less afraid of admitting that I need you than of actually losing you." Her brow furrows, and he doesn't blame her for that less than coherent sentence. "What I mean is -" he almost laughs at the words his mind offers up and chalks one in fate's corner, "- I...can't live without you. And more than that, I don't _want_ to anymore."

He stands then, because he has made his decision and now she must make hers. He takes her chin gently in his hand until she looks up at him; those eyes he can always read are windows into her spinning thoughts. "I can't promise that it'll work. But I promise I'm all in." He leans in, pressing his lips to hers for as long as he dares and then whispers in her ear. "And I promise no one will ever love you more than I do Ziva David."

He leaves without looking back, because he can't bear to. It's snowing hard outside now, and he's eternally grateful that it forces him to focus on driving. He makes it home and laughs bitterly at the idea of continuing the Hitchcock marathon now. But after wandering idly through his apartment for an hour, he finds himself back where he started, watching Grant and Kelly, and waiting for his answer.

It takes exactly twenty-seven hours and thirty-eight minutes (not that he's counting) before the quiet knock at his door. Her expression is unreadable as she hands him two papers. It's his bucket list, and she's taken the liberty of crossing off a few items. He feels the smile growing on his face even as his brow furrows.

"Why'd you cross off number one?"

She raises an eyebrow and closes the door behind her. She's moving towards him then, giving him a predatory look that sends a jolt of electricity straight down his spine. "Oh, you'll see…"

**-1-**

They are still wrapped up in a tangle of sheets, her naked body warm and pliant against his when he decides that ninja sex _definitely_ counts as martial arts training. He vows to spend the rest of his life eagerly pursuing its mastery.

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><p><strong>Hehehe, yes I know, gratuitous sex ending after a very heavy and emotional chapter. But I think it kind of fits them, yeah? Agree? Disagree?<strong>

**I've seen many fanfics bring up their symbiotic relationship, and I think it's perhaps the best word in the dictionary for them. My favorite by far is, easily enough, Symbiosis by Zaedah. I strongly recommend it!**


	5. Numbers 22, 23

**A huge thank you to all the great feedback, favorites, and alerts! This story is turning out to be ridiculously enjoyable to write, and I'm grateful it is so well received.**

**This will be the only chapter that jumps out of chronology (at the end), but these two bucket items really needed to stay together.**

**Disclaimer: in sharp contrast to its predecessors, the next couple of chapters were apparently written by adderall-popping fluff bunnies, so get out your insulin shots! We'll return to some more serious bits before the end though.**

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><p><strong>-22-<strong>

The constant noises emanating from Tim are grating. After the twelfth heaved sigh and groan, Tony can't take it anymore and looks to the twitchy probie with annoyance. "You got poison ivy on your McGonads again?"

The returned look is equally ticked off. "No, I've been stuck on chapter seven for the last two weeks, Tony."

"I thought you only wrote on your beloved little typewriter listening to crappy jazz? And should you really be working on book numero tres while on government time Mr. Gemcity?"

"Says the man currently playing Bubbletown?"

Ziva grins at this from across the bullpen but otherwise stays out of it.

"Do as I say, not as I do," Tony offers in his most prophetic voice.

McGee mumbles something that sounds derogatory, and Tony is suddenly in the mood to push him further.

"You say something, McMutter? Or your writer's block mean you can't even come up with a decent retort?"

"I _said_ it's all your fault!" Tim says loudly but then looks desperately like he wants to take it back. He may as well have waved a red flag in Tony's direction.

"My fault?" Tony says innocently. "And why pray-tell, oh mighty novelist, is that?"

He can tell McGee is looking for a way to weasel out of this one. Tony would even bet he prays for Gibbs to come around the corner and announce their immediate departure for a grisly murder scene, but he has now settled on the corner of McGee's desk and the boss is nowhere in sight. Even though he finally answers Tony, McGee's eyes drift warily to Ziva as he speaks. "It's...just that you two getting together has really screwed with my ability to write Tommy and Lisa."

Ziva's hands freeze over the keyboard, her eyes narrowing minutely, and McGee looks like he is fighting the urge to hide under his desk. Tony is far more amused, giving a sarcastic chuckle. "Well, gosh Tim, we're so sorry that our real _private_ life is screwing with your fictional characters...that are in _no_ way based on us..."

He'd bet good money that Tim would roll his eyes or glare at him, but that would mean taking his gaze off Ziva, and that seems like a very stupid thing to do right now. Instead he answers Tony quietly. "Very funny. I just mean every time I try to write them interacting now, all I can see is you two…"

"Doing what, MAHGee?" Ziva's voice is punctuated and cuts straight across the bullpen. Tony winces as the Probie's ears turn pink and he quickly turns his attention back to the computer screen.

"Nnnnevermind, okay? Forget I ever mentioned it, and hopefully my editor will just give me one more week…"

That piques Tony's fading interest again. "Editor, eh? Is this the same ice-queen who we thought was a psycho murder?"

McGee sighs, "No, Tony. Inventing a fake stalker definitely fell under breach of contract. I'm with a new firm now."

Tony studies the younger man's face and finds that he actually feels kind of sorry for the kid. "What are you trying to write?"

"Stakeout scene. Normal snark and banter, but it's not coming across as remotely interesting."

"As opposed to the rest of your novel?" Tony instantly regrets the jab as McGee's face falls. "Here, move…" he says, grabbing Tim's chair and shoving him out of it.

He makes a sound of protest and his eyes widen when Tony settles in and starts typing. "Tony! please be careful, don't delete any…"

"Shhh! You are interrupting my muses." He hammers away for nearly ten minutes, admittedly taking longer than necessary given his crappy typing skills. But he finally nods contentedly, stretching out his fingers, and stands back up. "All yours probie." He moves to sit now on top of Ziva's desk and she quirks an amused eyebrow at him.

McGee uses up the eyeroll he had stored earlier and sits down. But the look of doubt slowly shifts to disbelief and then grudging appreciation. "This is actually really good, Tony."

He tries to look wounded. "Thanks McDoubtingThomas! I'll have to speak with _my_ Agent, but I don't foresee any problem in you using it." He pauses all of two seconds before glancing over his shoulder. "Ziva, is it okay if McGee uses my thoughtful and witty insight?"

She laughs but McGee's eyes narrow now and grow suspicious. "Okay, what do you want?"

"Moi?" Tony says with his best look of innocence.

"Seriously...Coauthor credits...royalty check...a mention in the forward...tickets to the future premiere party?"

"Geez, think that much of me, do ya?" Tony laughs it off, finally returning to his own desk.

"So you're just going to let me use this, no strings attached?" McGee checks one more time, his tone still dubious.

Tony shrugs, but then stops and really thinks about it. With a wink across the bullpen, he states his demand. "Just promise me Tommy and Lisa will get a good ending in the last book, okay?"

McGee laughs, "Well I actually planned on killing off…" He cuts the sentence short at the twin glares leveled his way, giving a little cough, but then Tony can actually see he's thinking about it. "I guess I can manage that…In fact, if I start weaving in the idea right now then that will bridge nicely into…" His voice trails off as his hands start flying over the keyboard.

Tony exchanges a long smile with his partner and returns to his game. He supposes this is the closest he can get to writing his own memoirs. After all, if McGee has already immortalized him in Agent Tommy, well, there's really no point in reinventing the wheel...

**-23-**

It takes another decade for the continuing adventures of L.J. Tibbs to get green-lighted for the silver screen, and he is mostly convinced that the Probie waited until Gibbs retires lest he lose the rest of his rapidly diminishing hair to a daily litany of head slaps. Tony is gleeful when Tim offers them all a small piece of the action, and he lobbies hard for the role of Agent Tommy. When McHurtful tells him not-so-subtly that he is too old to play himself, he changes his sights to L.J. Tibbs. In the end, the producers offer him the role of barista #3 and he drags Ziva to the theater four times to watch his six-second silent cameo.

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><p><strong>Even though I'm posting pretty quickly, please don't let that stop you from reviewing previous chapters as well...leave 'em separately or all together...just keep that great feedback coming because it makes my day!<strong>

**Sneak peek: next chapter, you will get to see 9, 8, 6, 13, AND 5... and all of them are Tony/Ziva moments! :)**


	6. Numbers 9, 8, 6, 13, 5

**Those damn fluff bunnies haven't relinquished their hold yet...but I love each and every one of these vignettes and hope you do too! We'll get a little more angst and weight mixed into the next chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Tiva. And lots of it.**

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><p><strong>-9-<strong>

He takes her for a long weekend skiing in Vermont. It has undertones of CIRay that make him slightly squeamish, but it's an activity they both enjoy, and he is obsessed with the image in his head of snow-bunny Ziva in nothing more than a fuzzy hat and boots standing in front of a roaring fireplace.

She is surprised he can ski, until he reminds her that it's practically a factory-default setting for a rich white kid from Long Island. But despite his anticipation for the slopes (and other aforementioned activities) it's a sign at the hotel's front desk advertising a new class that has his mouth stretching widely into a grin.

She sees what grabs his attention and shakes her head warily. "Tony...no…"

"Oh yeah…"

"Not that I would ever call you old _caro_, but I think that's just a tourist snare for the younger crowd who have been watching the Olympics and now fancy themselves athletes."

He can't even bother to look insulted or correct her idiom; he is too excited.

She sighs, grabbing the key and her bag and leaves him signing the list at the front desk. "Just promise me you'll wait til the last day, yes? I want to get in plenty of good runs before you break your neck!"

Despite her threats to the contrary, she manages to refrain from saying a single _I __told __you __s_o in the ambulance, at the hospital, or on the uncomfortable flight back to DC. When they are finally home, she is even kind enough to unearth the list from a shoebox underneath the bed where he rests a casted leg.

**-8-**

The bickering and arguments don't cease just because they're in a relationship now. If anything, such exchanges become more explosive and volatile. But they hold to an early-made promise, and no one walks away. And no matter how bad the fight, he does not let a single night go by without telling her those three words he spent the first half of his life avoiding. Her soft-spoken replies and smiles and caresses are enough to cement it as the most rewarding phrase he will ever know.

**-6-**

"For me?" She says with a little gasp when his hands fall away from her eyes to reveal the sleek black machine.

"Just for the day," he admits. "No way I could afford to buy one, so it's rented. Which means it has to be returned in one piece, Zi…" he says warningly at the excited glint in her eyes. She runs a hand lovingly over the Ducati 1098s as he grins proudly and kisses her cheek. "Happy Birthday."

She is already tying her hair back and tosses him the spare helmet. He stares down at it warily and she raises a perfect eyebrow. "You aren't coming with?"

He turns the object nervously in his hands. "You realize I haven't put you on my life insurance policy yet, right? So there's no point in killing me just now…"

She laughs, that soft and throaty sound that she knows he can't resist. "C'mon Tony," she purrs. "It's my birthday. Do you not want to straddle me from behind...grip my waist...feel the power of all that horsepower thrumming between your legs…"

He shudders when her hands brush against his to grab the helmet and strap it on his head. He should value his own life more, but that he climbs on and wraps his arms around her is further proof: that mouth of hers will be the death of him one day.

Two hours later, he finds himself hugging the base of a toilet and promising never to tease the probie for his motion sickness again. He then makes a mental note to cross off number six as soon as the room stops spinning.

**-13-**

He wakes suddenly one night and fights the lingering sleepiness to determine what roused him in the first place. The bed beside him is empty, and he can just make out quiet noises emanating from the dark living room.

She is sitting on the floor beneath the window in nothing but a short silky robe, holding his bass expertly across her lap. The moonlight slants in through the shades and falls softly across her wandering fingers as she hums along with the notes.

He's sure he's never seen a sight more beautiful.

She glances up then, sensing his presence and smiles. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

He yawns and gives a little shrug, sitting down beside her. "Apparently I've gotten used to sleeping next to you." She chuckles softly and turns her attention back to the instrument. "You never told me you knew how to play."

Her grin is playful as she strums a little melody. "You never asked."

"Where'd you learn?"

Her fingers trip, the chord warbling as he watches silk-covered shoulders sag minutely. It takes her several long seconds before whispering, "Ari taught me."

She glances sideways, and he knows she is waiting for his normal shift in expression, the tense reaction that her brother's name has always elicited. But he feels only the calm of the quiet night and reaches out, smoothing a wayward curl away from her face. "I'm glad you have good memories of him."

Her returning smile is both warm and relieved as she leans in to kiss him. It holds none of the fiery passion of their earlier caresses, but her lips are soft and warm and familiar on his, and he finds that he loves both kinds equally.

Her attention returns to the bass then, and he leans forward, resting his head and forearms on tented knees to watch her fingers move across the strings.

"Will you teach me?"

She laughs quietly, and he can just pick up the chords of _Blackbird_ mixing with her laughter.

"Of course."

**-5-**

Somewhere along the way, he realizes that he has been in love with the Ultimate Bond girl for years. She has become _his_ entire universe, and the day she says yes to the simple silver band is the day a line goes through number five.

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><p><strong>This became my absolute Tiva indulgence...#13 now ranks as one of my favorite bits; I could see it so ridiculously clearly in my head and am thrilled with how it came across. But I hope you enjoyed every one. Perhaps drop a line and let me know your favorite? :)<strong>


	7. Numbers 12, 2, 4, 15, 14

**Can I just say I have such love for Tony's slightly reminiscent Bartlet/Two Cathedrals scene in the chapel? And if you don't know what I'm talking about, might I suggest a trip to YouTube for the sheer brilliance that only Martin Sheen can achieve in calling God a feckless thug...**

**But, anyways, back to the story, these next drops continue chronologically and cover about sixish years. They're rather unrelated, but it seemed silly to post separately when they're so short. The first isn't my favorite, but I re-wrote it six times and it just kept getting worse, so I'm sticking with the original shorter version...and I love #14 enough to make up for it!**

* * *

><p><strong>-12, 2, 4-<strong>

Though Gibbs grumbles about losing half his team in one fell swoop, his wedding gift to them is two weeks: whenever and wherever they want for a honeymoon. Ideas are solicited and exchanged at length, Ducky offers his longest soliloquy to date on the merits of Scotland, and at one point Abby seemingly has invited herself along...but then a case requires the MCRT's full attention. And then another. And another.

A full year passes before Gibbs cuffs them both on the head one day and tells them the offer has an expiration date. They stammer guiltily, but he rolls suddenly regretful eyes and reminds them that life is fragile and you can never be sure how long you've got.

They decide on Australia in the end: a shared compromise in that there is no Naval base remotely nearby that may require their assistance, and the wardrobe will consist largely of string bikinis. They hike and sail and snorkel the Barrier Reef, and Ziva - bless her endless resourcefulness - somehow manages to find an Aston Martin DB5 convertible hiding in some tiny town, which they rent and drive along the Great Ocean Road.

On their last days in Melbourne, Tony decrees it to be the perfect locale to finally tackle his _Jaws_ fantasy. He subsequently discovers that his fearless ninja is terrified of sharks, so despite his knowledgeable and enthusiastic descriptions of the experience - garnered mostly from last year's _Shark __Week_ - she stretches out on the beach with a book and a laugh while he saunters off for the fishing charter. But five hours later, when the 'professionals' are encouraging him to reel in the seven foot bully and ignoring his increasingly frantic assertions that they really _do _need a bigger boat, he admits that she may be onto something and decides to leave the beasts to Dreyfus and Scheider.

**-15-**

He finds himself leaning back in his chair, sketching in the margins of his notepad while he waits for their dead petty officer's CO to come back on the line.

"What are you dawdling?"

He jumps at the sudden and unexpected voice near his ear, his feet falling off the desk as he lurches forward. "Jesus Zi! First off, it's doodling. And second, will you please, _please_ stop doing that! You're gonna give me a friggin heart attack one of these days."

"Fine," her sigh is dramatic as she perches on the edge of his desk. "What are you _doodling_ then?"

"Continuing my quest for the perfect DiNozzo coat of arms…" he studies his handiwork and feels slightly chagrined at the lack of progress. "I'm having a hard time fitting both a basketball and a Sig into the design though."

"Truly difficult decisions," she clucks mockingly.

He purposefully ignores the jab and nods. "This is important stuff...gotta have something to pass along to future DiNozzo generations and all."

Her voice is nonchalant as she saunters back towards her desk. "That's okay, you still have about six and half months to work it out."

Her words sink in slowly - even by his own standards - and he is left gaping at her for nearly ten seconds before the grin blossoms on his face and her answering smile is radiance.

The forgotten CO is left talking to a dangling receiver as Tony launches himself from his chair to embrace his laughing partner.

**-14-**

"Yes!" Tony cries, the controller falling to the floor as his fists pump the air in triumph. "I am AT LAST the Master of the gaming-universe!"

That the McGee defeated is a round faced four-year old girl with the chicken pox does little to lessen the victory. After all, the list doesn't specify 'original recipe McGee,' and so he puts it down in the win column and resigns himself to the fact that this is the last time the now-giggling Linnie McGee will 'let' her Uncle Tony win.

In fact, by the time Tim returns from work that evening, she has already bested Tony's high score - twice - and runs to tell her father so. He beams proudly and shoots a rather smug look at his old partner until she calls him McDaddy and the expression turns to one of horror.

Tony smiles as he watches the familiar scene of a father scooping up his laughing child to hold her close. And for the umpteenth time in four years, he is suddenly angry at the world for allowing his softhearted Probie to fall in love with the quiet and quirky and wonderful Andrea from Cybercrimes only to rip her away again on what should have been their happiest day.

He consults the schedule tacked to the fridge and announces that Abby will be by in the morning for her shift of pox-watch. Tim's grateful smile is the latest of many over the years for the adoptive family that has rallied around him. Tony claps a strong hand on the man's shoulder, kisses the squirming child, and goes home to his girls.

He stands in the doorway of their bedroom that night, just watching his partner curled around the sleeping toddler and thanks God for the dulcet sounds of dueling chainsaws emanating from them both.

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><p><strong>AN: So, yeah, Tony has gotten over his random 'fear' of children by now, obviously...I know they were aiming for a little levity there, but it fell completely flat for me. **

**Every once in awhile, I create a throwaway character that suddenly takes on this crazy life of its own. Same thing happened with Talia, who was only supposed to be in a one-shot dream sequence and is now central to Ties that Bind. So apologies if the end of this chapter is a bit jarring, especially for McAbby fans, but this little Tim backstory came out of nowhere, and I liked it too much to delete. **

**Anywho, please leave a review. :)**


	8. Number 20

**This ****is a very short one****, ****but ****it ****didn****'****t ****fit ****on ****the ****end ****of ****the ****last chapter ****and ****was ****dreadful ****on ****the ****beginning ****of ****the ****next. S****o ****it ****must ****stand ****alone to maintain the timeline!**

**-20-**

He stands with hands on hips and surveys the field of battle. The opposing team is relaxed, obviously relishing in their lead. But it's only two goals, and it's only half time.

He breathes deeply and nods his head. "Okay, this is it. Great moments...are born... from _great_ opportunity…"

"Miracle," a voice interrupts lazily from behind him. He turns with a raised eyebrow to the ten-year old girl sitting on the grass between her mother's knees. Ziva's sure fingers are re-braiding auburn curly hair as Sophia DiNozzo takes a sip of gatorade, eyes sparkling at the challenge she meets in her father's gaze.

He studies his opponent carefully. "If you put your effort and concentration into playing to your potential -"

"Hooisers."

He swears under his breath, pacing slightly back and forth as he considers his next move. Ziva sighs, muttering something in Hebrew and they both laugh.

"I heard that!"

"Of course you did daddy." She has mastered her mother's patronizing tone, and he has to fight hard to suppress a grin. "Now gimmie a hard one already!"

"Alright, the force is strong in you, young grasshopper…" Tony thinks for several seconds and finally stops pacing, turning to face her. "But you listen! And you take a lesson from the dead...If we don't come together, right now, on this hallowed ground…"

Her eyes narrow and she fidgets, causing Ziva to lose the strand of hair she is trying to weave into the plait. "Ohhh...oh I know that one!" She says, bouncing agitatedly.

"Denzel Washington," the whisper comes stealthily from a silver-haired man on Ziva's right.

"Remember the Titans!" She yells victoriously.

"No assists boss!" Tony's expression is indignant, but it slips as he tries to figure out how in the hell Gibbs knows movie trivia, and falls away completely when the older man holds up a hand for Sophie to high-five. Tony's sigh is overdramatic as he drops on his knees in front of her and dips his head toward the grass. "I bow down...to the master…"

She giggles again when he leans in and kisses her cheek. "You're playing good out there sweet pea, keep it up. And if all else fails, just take out their shins like your mother taught you."

"Hey!"

Tony exaggerates the wince as a hairbrush whacks his arm. "Kidding! Kidding…" He smirks and winks at Sophie. "But you know, sometime, when the team is up against the wall you just gotta tell them to go out there…"

"And win one for the Gipper," Ziva finishes with a smug smile.

He stares at her incredulously. "God woman, I love you right now." He leans in to kiss her, Sophie trapped in between them.

"Ewww knock it off!" She squeals, pushing against his chest. The coach calls out a '_Soph __c__'__mon, __huddle __up!'_ and she is gone with another laugh and a little wave.

"By the way," Ziva says conversationally as Tony settles beside her on the grass. "I told her to aim for the kneecaps - far more effective."

Gibbs and Tony both turn to stare at her, and she just smirks, her attention focused on the resuming game.

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><p><strong>I recognize it's a bit strange and morbid that they would name their daughter after a dead assassinZiva's oft-used cover. But God help me, I find it amusing and so very...them! That, and I don't know if it's ever been mentioned on the show, but in my mind Tony is a huge Sophia Loren fan… :)**

**Just two more to go. We're getting steak in the next chapter with a helping of angst on the side...**


	9. Number 17

**Ohhh, the chapter I never thought I'd do in any NCIS fanfic, but here we go.**

**Disclaimer: Apparently I've made a few people cry here...so consider yourself warned!**

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><p><strong>-17-<strong>

They all try over the years, but the notorious man-of-few-words shrugs off any inquiry with a gruff, "Just cook the damn meat!" Marinade hypotheses run the gamut from bourbon to sawdust to something Abby insists is the liquid smoke of _prosopis __glandulosa._

So when Gibbs shows up at the DiNozzo house one ordinary Sunday in July with seven marinated steaks ready for the grill, Tony makes the customary inquiry with absolutely no expectation of a response.

"Soy sauce, Worcestershire, olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, mix of herbs, and at least one night resting in the fridge," Gibbs says simply.

Tony freezes, the large spatula in his hand hovering comically in midair. "Boss?"

His tone hasn't lost any of its impatience over the years. "You asked me a question, DiNozzo. I answered!"

"Okay…" Tony sets down the utensils now, closing the lid to the grill, and sits in a deck chair. "What's wrong?"

Gibbs simply stares at him for several long moments, his mouth opening likes he's going to say something. But then he closes is again and nods, smiling to himself with a look that Tony would almost call proud. He sits in the chair beside Tony and leans back with a sigh.

"Cancer."

Even though Tony is expecting the catastrophic by this point, the word still feels like a punch to gut, forcing the air out of his lungs in one hard breath. He struggles to find his voice while the older man waits. "Wh...what kind? How bad?" He finally manages.

"Pancreatic. Three to six months."

Tony's gut clenches again. "What about chemo or surgery or-?"

Gibbs just gives a little shrug. "Doc only said it would buy me another month or two."

Troubled eyes shift to the patio door; Tony can see Ziva inside at the kitchen island with her back to them, and he suddenly needs her beside him. "Let me get Zi so we can talk about this…"

Gibbs shakes his head. "I'll tell them all tonight after dinner. But I wanted you to know first. They're gonna need you."

There are shades of desperation in his voice now. "No Gibbs, they need _you_...I need you. You're what holds our crazy little family together…"

"Nah, no one person is going to break that. But Tim and the girls, they're gonna look to you to get them through this. You deserved a head's up."

Tony rubs a hand over his face, not wanting to process how this will affect the ones he loves. Tim and Lynn, who have already lost too much. Abby, who takes to change and loss about as well as she did twenty years ago. Sophie; he is the only grandfather she has ever known. And Ziva...God, how is he going to tell Ziva...

He can't deal with those impossible implications, and so his brain grasps for a change of topic. His eyes fall back on Gibbs, who is studying his reactions closely. "Okay, well, nevermind us right now, how are you doing with all this?"

Gibbs just shrugs. "It is what it is."

Tony waits for more, but none comes. "That's it?"

"You think I should be feeling sorry for myself?"

He gives him an exasperated look. "You're just...I dunno, calmer than I'd be. I mean, you're Gibbs and all, but you're accepting this really well even for you."

Gibbs sighs then, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, and it hits Tony hard and fast how old he suddenly looks. But Gibbs just jerks his chin in the direction of the kitchen.

"Can you imagine ever losing 'em?"

Tony follows his gaze back inside. Soph has joined Ziva at the counter; they are side-by-side chopping up a slew of vegetables. Their little teen chef has her mother's proclivity and skill with a knife, which makes him both very proud and very nervous. The thought of losing either one of them is almost enough to take his breath away. "No," Tony whispers. "No, I wouldn't survive it..."

Gibbs nods knowingly and adopts that contemplative look that Tony remembers so well from their days in the bullpen. "None of you ever asked why I got married those three times and never had any more kids." The younger man opens his mouth but then closes it again just as quickly. Gibbs smirks and reads his expression like a book, "It wasn't just because the marriages were measured in months instead of years." He turns serious once more, his eyes distant. "I couldn't do it again. Couldn't risk having another son or daughter that might not grow up. So I finally just gave up on the idea of having a family. Wasn't worth the potential pain."

His gaze focuses back on Tony. "Yet somehow I still ended up with four kids and even two amazing granddaughters. And I couldn't love any of you more if you were my own flesh and blood…" Gibbs' voice actually chokes up infinitesimally, and that's what almost cracks Tony's tenuous hold on his own emotions.

"But I miss my girls, Anthony. It's been a long life without them. I'm sorry that I have to leave one family behind, but I just can't be afraid or angry at something that's gonna bring me back to Shannon and Kelly." The tone is soft, and Tony sees that Gibbs - never one for heartfelt admissions - is struggling to explain this without minimizing his love for all of them. But Tony gets it, because he knows without question that he would feel the same way if the situation were reversed.

And so he simply nods and looks to the ground, fighting the tears that have been pricking the corners of his eyes for the last ten minutes. A weathered hand reaches out to grip his forearm, and the smallest of choked sobs makes its way up Tony's throat. He reaches his other hand to rest on top of Gibbs' and they simply sit like that for a minute while he composes himself. But then there's the telltale sounds from inside the house that signal the rest of the family has arrived. Tony takes a deep breath, swiping a quick hand across his face and meets Gibbs' eyes once more. The compassion and acceptance and peace emanating from him makes it easier for Tony to stand up then and kiss Abby and Lynn on the cheeks and smile and laugh and act as if life will continue normally beyond this day. Still, his hand finds Ziva's under the table when dinner starts, and he doesn't let go of her again for the rest of the night.

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><p>In the end, 3-6 months is whittled down to just 72 days. Tony secretly wonders if the boss had turned his steely-eyed glare on death and told it to just hurry the hell up. For once LeRoy Jethro Gibbs made up his mind that he was ready to go, not even God himself would dare keep him on Earth a day longer than necessary.<p>

The steaks marinate the night before the simple funeral, and while they are delicious and perfectly cooked, it just isn't the same. After an evening of stories and laughter and tears, they come to the conclusion that it was the need for comfort and guidance from their adoptive patriarch that always made those cowboy dinners taste so damn good.

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><p><strong>One more chapter left! Even though I really am not ready to let this go yet...some of these vignettes may very well develop themselves into full length fics.<strong>

**Please leave a note and let me know your thoughts! **

**Oh and by the way, Gibbs' marinade is my own not-so-secretive recipe. :-)**


	10. Numbers 25, 21, 18, 3

**-25, 21, 18, 3, ... -**

"How's Chinese food sound tonight...Zi?" Tony calls out, rounding the corner to their bedroom. She is stretched out on his side of the bed, leaning back against the headboard. His nightstand drawer is open, her attention focused on several well-worn pieces of paper in her hands. "Whatcha doin?"

"I was trying to find that picture of Soph the day she got her brown belt; she promised to show it to the boys. But I found your old Bucket List." A smile plays on her lips as he sits next to her, scooting close. "I'd almost forgotten about it. You have done pretty well, over the years... although I think you have taken a few _liberties_ here and there…"

"Such as?" he says defensively.

"Did you go into space and forget to tell me?"

He shrugs. "So astrotourism progressed a little slower than I was hoping. But considering how many times the boys drag me on Space Mountain every year, I think I've earned my wings."

She chuckles, "You don't fool me; you love it just as much as they do. Fine I'll give it to you. But honestly, Tony...why is there a line through _find __Jimmy __Hoffa_? Are you going senile on me?"

"Hey, I'm still not convinced he didn't just reinvent himself as that retired Colonel we put away back in '13! Man looked _just_ like him."

"Tony he would have been over 100 years old…"

He scoffs. "Plastic surgery and semantics!" She laughs and nudges him with her elbow as he concedes, "Nah, I mean this is real life after all, so I had to let a few things slide here and there."

She clucks her tongue. "This is true...I _was_ rather lenient on that Hitchcock marathon after all. As I remember, you never finished it."

"Mmmm, as I remember we started a _far_ more entertaining marathon instead," he mumbles, his lips brushing up the side of her neck.

She shakes her head exasperatedly, but it's ruined by the grin she fails to hide. "Some things never change."

"Thank God for that."

He has fleeting hope that she may set the list aside and give in to his charm, but then she squints in confusion. "You never went to Humphrey Bogart's grave, did you?"

Tony's playful expression falls and his sigh is sad as he rests a cheek against her shoulder. "That one is x-d out, not crossed out."

She gets it almost instantly, reaching a hand up to stroke his hair. "California," she says simply.

"California," he confirms. "Never quite warmed back up to that State...Besides Zi, I decided years back that I've seen enough bodies and funerals and graves for a lifetime. I learned to celebrate the living instead…" his voice trails off, and he loses himself in thought for several long moments before she squeezes his hand. His faraway gaze comes back and lands on her understanding smile, and he shakes his head and gives a little shrug. "Besides, why go across country to see some moldy old gravestone when I can watch Bogey on my ridiculously large TV any time, right?"

"Here's looking at you, kid," she whispers and he smiles contentedly, moving in for another kiss.

She pulls back after a few moments though and laughs; his face falling at his second failed attempt at distraction. "Well, Tony, it's quite the admirable list of accomplishments...you should be proud."

He takes the two sheets from her hands then, "Where's the rest of it?"

Her brow furrows. "I only remember there being the two pages…"

With a shake of his head he leans over her, rifling through the nightstand drawer. He pulls out another three mismatched sheets, just as stained and folded and worn as the original two. Everything here is handwritten and messy with doodles in the margins. She is confused when he hands her the pages, but then her expression softens into a look so tender and warm that it takes his breath away. "You've been adding to it all these years…"

"Mmmhmm," he mumbles, unable to take his eyes off her face as her eyes skim the extended list. "The original was good, but it was lacking in a lotta ways too…had even more growing up to do before I could see what really matters."

She squints at the scrawled handwriting. "But I thought the point is to list the things you want to do in the future, yes? A lot of things here are so specific, it...it looks like you added them after the fact?"

He shrugs again, "With a lot of them, I did. These were the things I didn't know were important in life until they were about to happen or already had."

"Like _hold __my __newborn __daughter_," She says softly.

"Exactly...Number 43, followed by 44: _Don__'__t __screw __her __up. _I only finally put a line through that one when she had kids of her own."

"Which I see is number 68…"

"Another Anthony Junior Junior...my legacy continues…"

"And number 30: _Eat gelato on the Spanish Steps_…"

He grins. "Our thirtieth anniversary, are you seeing my brilliant symmetry and planning there?"

"So you didn't write this sequentially..." She observes, and he takes mock offense at the critique.

"Hey, neither did Gibbs with the rules, but no one ever gave him flack for it! Sometimes I saved special numbers for special ideas."

She rolls amused eyes. "I can see that. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that number 57 is _**Do**_ _page __57_?

"Repeatedly..._Do __page __57 __repeatedly_. And if you remember correctly, we certainly -"

"Okay, I get it…." She laughs again but shakes her head slowly. "I can't believe you've been doing this all these years." She carefully puts the pages back in order, her gaze falling back on the first few items written so long ago. "So accomplishing all of this...is that how you finally _discovered __the __meaning __of __life, _my love?" Her tone is equal parts gentle teasing and genuine curiosity.

He shakes his head, "Nah…a line went through number three about twenty years ago after a perfectly ordinary Saturday morning watching cartoons with the kid while you made pancakes. I realized that, at the end of the day, you two are all I need in the world to be happy. The rest of these accomplishments and memories are just icing on the cake."

He has a hard time finding the words to describe her expression then, but he'd say it's just a little bit awed. "God help me, I love you Anthony DiNozzo."

The kiss is tender, his hand coming up to her cheek to keep her lips on his as he rolls on his back. She lands gently on his chest with a laugh and a glint in her still-youthful eyes. "You know, there is plenty of room on the last page for a few more drops in that bucket…_if_ you're up for it."

An eyebrow raises at the challenge, and his reciprocated grin is playful. "You bet your pretty little ass there is, sweetcheeks. You're not getting rid of me anytime soon."

The pages fall from suddenly distracted hands and flutter to the floor. She had missed the faded arrow drawn from Number 3 over to the edge of the page, but the first sheet lands upside down and reveals the single corresponding sentence scrawled on the back...the one item, the reminder, he vows never to cross out.

_**70: Never take it for granted...**_

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><p><strong>Phew, that's it! 2,500 words becomes 11,000 and I loved writing every bit of it. THANK YOU so much for all the kind reviews and alerts and favorites...I hope you enjoyed taking this little journey with Tony as much as I did!<strong>

**If you've been reading quietly along, now would be a great time to 'drop' a little note and let me know which was your favorite! And then get out there and work on your own buckets! ;-) **

**~ Jules**


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